


Recovery Interlude

by Illusion_Of_Sea_Axes



Series: Project Free-Rider [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Facility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:11:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusion_Of_Sea_Axes/pseuds/Illusion_Of_Sea_Axes
Summary: Washington has been declared unfit for duty following Epsilon,he hasn't seen a ship in years.Until the Counselor decides to show him one.





	Recovery Interlude

Washington didn’t get to see what had become of _the Olympia_ following its first and last ill-fated flight for a long time, not until the Counselor showed him the images. Before that, he only knew anything based off the fever-dream quality of the nightmares of being trapped in a burning cockpit, bleeding to death from torn out implants, paralyzed (those nightmares always warranted a quick physical check).

“Hello, Washington. How are you this morning?” The Counselor asked, taking a seat. No one else ever sat in it. Washington remained sat upright on the bed. It’s his, technically, but it’s never felt like it. It was a step up from being strapped down 24/7, drugged at least most of that time.

He hadn’t been called _Agent_ Washington in a while, but they figured out quickly his old name was something he wouldn’t respond to (not positively, anyway) and so stuck with the codename. At least it was better than not knowing his name at all. They wouldn’t call him by any other name because, as they frequently told him, those names weren’t his.

“Okay,” Washington said. He sits stiff, as if he were in parade rest, only he wasn’t standing. Old habits die hard. “I feel okay.”

“Did you sleep well, Washington?”

“No.” Lying would be pointless. His eyes were dark, sleep was hard, and there was no way to hide that from anyone.

“Why not?”

“Nightmares,” The Counselor scrawled something down on the datapad. “Like always.”

“I see… Were these nightmares new or the same as ones you have already had?”

“No, the same.” Washington’s ports burned, dully, in the back of his head. Always the same. He resisted rubbing it, opening up the old scars. The bracelets on his wrists for a purpose.

“And what were these nightmares about, Washington?”

“You already know what they’re about-”

“Please, Washington. Humor me. Now, what were these nightmares about?”

Washington swallowed down the bubbling, fizzing desire to just tell the Counselor to go away, to let him sit and wallow in the jigsaw-mindfuck of his memories without having to deal with the repetitive, daily talks about how much of a mess they were.

_-Agent South Dakota will be debriefed, but not by you, and you will certainly not interrupt Agent Carolina, she has multiple preparations to follow and not enough time to deal with you._

_“With all do respect, so have I, sir.”_

He winces at the memory, at the loose thread it is in a knot of memories he refuses to touch. His fingers twitch, grab at his hospital scrubs. Some part of him wishes he had the skintight kevlar on, another part is grateful for fabric to fiddle with. “It was about the crash.”

“ _The Olympia’s_ crash, correct?”

_“What other fucking crash could I be referring to!?”_ remains unsaid. He’s asked it before, maybe yesterday, maybe a week ago, he pretends that failing to remember doesn’t bother him.“Yes. The- _the Olympia’s_ crash.”

“And how much of the crash do you remember, Washington?” The Counselor’s voice seemingly echoes in Washington’s head. He’s asked this before, many times.

_“I don’t know.”_

_“The screaming. All of the screaming, the pain-”_

_“All of it.”_

“I… I remember talking to Control… And then… The- the AI, it- it started screaming and I- that’s it. I blacked out.”

“I see.” Another line of words on the datapad. “Do you remember the AI’s name, Washington?”

“It- it’s name was… uhm.. I…”

_“Leonard?”_

_“Alpha?”_

“Epsilon. It- Its name was Epsilon. Right?” He sounds needy when he asks. He hopes he got it right. The Counselor’s insistence that there were no wrong answers was bullshit, although Washington couldn’t recall _why_.

“Yes, its designation was Epsilon.” He should feel proud he remembered. He doesn’t. “What was the AI saying before you blacked out? Do you remember that?”

“ I- I just remember screaming, he- he was hurting, he wanted it to stop-” Washington sucked in a breath, something forces himself to stop.

_“He’s ready! Bring in the stasis unit!”_

“That’s it. That’s all I remember. I- I was in so much pain.” Splitting, fragmenting, all of him- trying to preserve himself- trying to escape- make it stop- _“GET OUT!”_

“Yes, you were. How much pain are you in today, Washington?”

“I…” The scars around his implant site burn, begging for his attention, for acknowledged. His grip on his shirt tightens. “None,” he finally answers. “I’m fine.”

“Headaches?”

“I tell the nurses about those. You can ask them.” The Counselor pauses, looks at him from behind his datapad, scrutinizing. “Not today. No headaches today.” He adds, rushed, and stares at where his fingers are starting to wear at the hem of his shirt. The nurse’s record is a more consistent record then what Washington would be able to remember during a morning session, the Counselor shouldn’t even ask, but he seems to enjoy asking seemingly unrelated questions. 

“Good. That’s good.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Washington, would you like to see photos of the crash?”

“I-” Washington paused, licked his lips. He wondered if perhaps he was hallucinating, a not-too out there possibility after what happened with Epsilon. He had asked to see _The Olympia’s_ wreckage many times, he distantly recalls, and every time they told him no. No, Washington, you’re not stable enough- No, your post-traumatic stress may react- No, it’s in the past now- No, Washington, it may trigger a memory relapse- _No_ . You cannot see it -- _“-staring at her?” -_ \- now.

Never had they asked him if he wanted to see them.

“What?” He asks, wondering if he heard wrong. “You- You want to… I can see the crash?”

“Yes, Washington, I am asking if you would like to see photos of the crash.”

Washington thinks of all the reasons he shouldn’t, and they remembers how this is new. He’s not going to drop an opportunity to see something, something from _before_ that isn’t pictures of C.T. and Maine and Carolina and York- _dead, dead, dead, dead_. They’d told him all about that.

“Yes- yes, I would like to see them.” The Counselor set aside his datapad -- a distorted image of Carolina, shattered pieces of plastic intermingling with glass in the corner of his room- _calm down, Washington_ \-- and pulled something from the inside of his jacket. A folder. He opened it and held out its contents (a stack of large, laminated photos) to Washington, who took them with trembling hands.

Washington had been living with the perspective of the crash constantly distorted. He didn’t consider himself reliable, not anymore, but this helped confirm some things to him. It also brought up knots of memories, all entangled, not all _his_ , and it adds an extra tremor to his hands.

_The Olympia_ had been a great ship in Washington’s eyes, but whatever beauty existed in the technology was severely marred in the photographs.

Two of the side jets had been torn off, the entire right side crumpled inwards like a tin can. The rifle symbol painted onto the top was bent inwards, leaving only the butt of the gun.

The belly, flatter than _The Columbia’_ s but not flat like the drop-ship Niner flew, was scraped up and coated in sand. The front windows were shattered. In the shots that Washington suspected were taken by drones, the entry door was dented inwards but still there. In shots clearly taken from on-hand crew, the door had been cut open. The cock-pit had to be cut open to rescue him, Washington realized as he saw the single provided image of the long hallway-esque interior of _The Olympia_. The walls were bent inwards, a spare few of the emergency lights running that hadn’t been brutally shattered. The doorway to the cockpit had been bent in, no human could fit through it (no matter how hard they tried). There were no pictures of the cockpit, where Washington had been, and he was aware of why.

They were still being precautious with him. Anything could be a trigger, they had learned. Names, faces, phrases, words- _anything_.

“How…? I… I thought I just dropped...”

“You did, Washington.”

Washington looked over all the photographs again, putting it together with the few scraps of scenery visible or that he could recall. The ship had landed on its side, kept moving, and hit way too many rocks.

There are so many questions, so many, that he wants to ask and answers he needs, but his tongue is tangled behind his teeth and he doesn’t know what is safe to ask right now because all the knots of memories in his brain are tangling together. A headache builds behind his eyes, he closes them, images of Allison and Carolina and the crashed Columbia dance before him, he opens them again.

“Washington?” He looks up, feels bile rise in his throat, and he begrudgingly hands over the photographs into the Counselor’s waiting hands. Of course he wouldn’t get to keep them. They didn’t let him keep anything.

“Do you remember anything new, Washington?” The Counselor asked once all the photographs were secure and hidden inside the folder. Washington had to force his eyes away from it.

“No…” Fire, hanging limp in his harness, bruising, crying, mumbling, waiting for the flames licking at the nose outside the window to spread to the sparking controls, to him, waiting for death- no more pain, Control is still talking. “Nothing new.” Washington says after he swallows down the bile. He distantly smells smoke, his left arm burns, he wishes he had longer sleeves. 

The Counselor leaves when a nurse arrives with Washington’s lunch and afternoon medication. Washington chokes down the flavorless pill with the water and eats his food under the nurse’s watchful eye.

It distantly smells of smoke and burning plastic and rubber. He finishes it anyway.


End file.
